


Oh, my angel, you hold my heart.

by novak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Writing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:24:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year and a half since Castiel's disappearance and Dean is forgetting more and more about him with every day that passes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, my angel, you hold my heart.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this because i felt quite sad after reading a destiel fic. it's probably bad and full of typos, but i had no beta.
> 
> i forgot to mention that this is also VERY loosely following the actual television show. woopsie poopsie. 
> 
> inspired by part of the song 'manhattan' by say anything:  
>  _i can taste the clouds, and my wings can carry me to your window, where you will hold me in your arms, and kiss me softly as you stroke my cheek and say, 'oh, my angel, you hold my heart. i've been dreaming of you, like you have me. can you touch my skin, and lay your kisses on my cheeks?'_

Castiel has been gone for so long that Dean is beginning to forget. He lays alone in a shabby hotel bed at night, Sam snoring in the one beside him, staring at the ceiling and racking his brains for memories of his angel.  
The most vivid memories he conjures stem from his dreams. Moments, fragments of time that he wouldn't remember otherwise, spring forth from his subconscious - things like Cas' laugh, how once his nose wrinkled with the smile. The way he stares, intense and curious and forever interested, always willing to listen to what Dean has to say unless it is particularly blasphemous or particularly stupid. 

In his waking hours, those spent in the Impala driving along practically abandoned roads or through congested traffic (which Dean despises), are the hardest times to remember Castiel. He wants to remember the blue of his eyes when Dean glanced at him in the rear vision mirror, or the way he would fidget with loose buttons on his trench coat whenever he sat beside Dean while Sam slept in the back, all legs and arms and awkward angles.  
Dean remembers introducing Castiel to the notion of a birthday party; they decided to celebrate Castiel's birthday on the fifteenth of August, despite Castiel having existed before the creation of calendars. Dean's not entirely sure that Castiel ever understood but he was happy enough with eating a chocolate cake from a gas station with some cheap, shitty paper streamers hanging from the stationery ceiling fan overhead. 

It's been a year and a half since Castiel's disappearance and Dean is forgetting more and more about him with every day that passes, more and more under the oppressive weight of whiskey and hunting and desperately trying to cope with the excessive amounts of emotional trauma that being a hunter brings. 

Sam's asleep in the room and Dean's outside working on the Impala in the harsh and mostly unhelpful fluorescent lighting cast out from the porch of the aged motel and suddenly, it flickers. Once, twice. Dean tries to squash the lick of hope that burns its way up his spine; it's faulty wiring. It's not his angel. He keeps working, aggressively tinkering with the radiator (it's started to leak and probably needs to be replaced, but he doesn't have the money right now). It flickers once more and there's a rustle, like the sound of a bird flying overhead.

He goes still.

He breathes slowly, through his nose, out his mouth, grease-coated fingers resting like talons over the lip of the Impala's hood, peeking into the black depths of the engine. He closes his eyes when he gets that smell, the smell of Cas, the smell of oceans and Heaven, something clean and cold and sweet.  
He turns around, figuring he needs to go to bed, that he's had too much to drink and it's too late to be outside by himself. 

It's Castiel.

It's Cas, standing there, in his trench coat. Ruffled hair and a tired expression, deep lines etching into his vessel's face. Great, silky black wings stretching out, quivering some with the effort. He looks exhausted, but Dean feels a flicker of rage instead of relief and slams the the Impala's hood shut, face stormy and eyes dark.  
He says nothing, does nothing but stand there, leaning some on the Impala like he's looking for her support.  
Cas says, "Dean," and he feels like his world is fraying at the edges, tearing through the middle. A knot forms in his throat, impossible to swallow past, and salty tears prickle at his eyes. Castiel's face warps, some, into a frown, a line of worry pressing itself insistently between his brows, like he doesn't understand.  
"Dean," he says again, his voice as deep and rough as ever. He tilts his head to the left, studying the hunter; he hasn't changed. Castiel can see that Dean's heart is still heavy, bruised even, but that his soul still burns bright beneath his skin, golden, glorious, bright enough to rival Castiel's battered Grace. 

Castiel's wings fall some when Dean doesn't move. He takes a tentative step closer towards the mortal, eyes curious, but he falters when Dean's upper lip pulls itself into a snarl.  
"Where the fuck were you, Cas." It's not a question, not even a demand. Castiel isn't sure he's meant to answer. He fidgets with his trench coat, with the loose buttons like he used to do in the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean squashes down the rush of relief that comes with familiarity. He continues, "I fucking needed you, man. We needed you, me and Sam. And you fucked off." His voice is tense and shaky and he grunts to himself, a curse beneath his breath, when a tear dribbles down his cheek. He brushes it away roughly, replaces his glare and fixes it to Cas like a trapped raccoon, all ferocious rage with the need to protect itself. 

More tears come, and as the salt water falls, so does his resolve. His image of Castiel blurs with the onslaught and he sinks down, down, until he's crouching on the asphalt. He goes down on his knees, face in his hands and thinks bitterly that, even when he's been abandoned by his angel, even when he's been longing for him, searching for him, praying to him for a year and a half, he's the only thing in the whole, wide universe he would ever allow to see him like this. Dean feels weak, horribly so; he feels useless, worthless, like he wasn't good enough for a banished angel to spend their time around. 

"I need you so much, Cas," he whispers into his hands, his palms wet with his tears as he presses them into his eye sockets, trying to force them back inside. Castiel is in front of him in a second, wings curling around the both of them, providing shelter, privacy, safety. Dean latches onto the lapels of Cas' coat, pulls him in and cries against his chest, broken. This is definitely not how he wanted the reunion to go; he wanted to be bitter, he wanted to brood. He wanted to make it absolutely clear to Castiel in all of his naive wisdom that disappearing for months on end is most certainly not okay. 

But he can't. He can't be mad at him. Not for long. His hands find their way under the coat, gripping Castiel's sides as he tries to calm himself, shuddering with Cas' hands warm on his back, fingers massaging tense muscle through the thin, worn cotton of his Led Zeppelin t-shirt.  
He presses kisses to the underside of Cas' jaw, needy, like he's making sure Cas is real. He breathes in the smell of him like a newborn puppy scenting its mother, nuzzles his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, crooning nothings to the unshaven skin there. "You were in my dreams," he tells him, "You were always in my dreams." Castiel seems to wince, and his wiry arms tighten around Dean, wings shifting closer until Dean feels long, elegant flight feathers brushing over the small of his back. 

"And you with mine," Castiel answers, and that's all Dean needs to hear. Castiel still has his wings, still has the tattered remains of his Grace but in all this time he's been growing human; before he left, Dean taught him what he could. He told him about dreams, that they're regular occurrences in any period of sleep. He told him about shaving, about bathing, about washing his hair properly. Taught him about fucking. Taught him how to love. 

And Dean has become the focal point of an angel's dreams. An Angel of the Lord, dreaming about a righteous man of Earth, whose life is a meaningless blot on the windshield of an angel's existence.  
Dean doesn't press Castiel for details of his disappearance, not right now. He stays curled in the warmth of Castiel, kissing his cheeks, wiping away his own tears with the backs of his hands, and wonders how he could ever forget aspects of Castiel the way he did.


End file.
